KITCHEN, or How Hakkai Met Gojyo
by Aki4
Summary: The Happy Home Tales of Gojyo and Hakkai, Part I. Dedicated to Krimson, who knows why.


Kitchen (Or, How Hakkai met Gojyo)  
  
A 58 fic by Aki  
  
dedicated to KRIMSON, wondrous goddess and generous giver of CDs. from her all goodness flows, so she deserves--well, a lot more than this crappy fic, but it's written for her anyway.  
  
spoilers for vol. 5 of the manga. some lines of dialogue lifted straight from the text.  
  
The plaster walls are chipped and smudged, and in some places even cracked, where the spirit of domesticity, feeling cheated, turned to rage. Rust stiffens the faucet taps. He has to open a window and hold his breath before turning on the stove; sometimes the burner doesn't spark and the strong smell of gas simply goes on hissing into the room.   
  
It may be a kitchen, but its history seems divorced from the preparation of food. When he first opened the cabinets, they held two packages of stale instant noodles, a can of beans old enough to have petrified, and mice droppings. The counters were covered in layers of mysterious stains. The fridge smelled musty and forgotten, and held half a molding loaf and four cans of beer. Beneath his swollen bare feet the linoleum of the floor was tacky, cracked and yellowed.   
  
It's no longer tacky, thanks to some scrubbing and a mild vinegar solution, but he can't do anything about the cracks. He also hasn't found a way to make the faucets shine, and the windows won't open further than three inches, so he gave them up with the knowledge that he'd done his best.   
  
But now, perhaps, he can call it a kitchen.  
  
Now there is food in the fridge. He had to unplug it in order to scrub out the insides. It took him two days, working in the four or five hours before Gojyo got up; his muscles still felt like wet sheets, mercilessly wrung. He removed the drawers and shelves and washed those separately, stuck an economy-size box of baking soda inside, and surrendered to optimism.   
  
There were actually cockroaches inside the first time he opened it, roaches as long as his thumb. He had to remind himself that he'd killed hundreds--one thousand youkai with his bare hands--before he could bring himself to reach out. He spent the next half hour on the kitchen floor, hands trembling and feeling ill.   
  
The first thing he dared to ask for was the roach motel. Gojyo lifted a red eyebrow but the next day it was there on the table, along with two mousetraps. He thanked the man--more transparently than was his wont, likely, because Gojyo looked almost sheepish.   
  
"It ain't exactly the Ritz, but I'm not usually home much."   
  
He is good at recognizing crude apologies. He still remembers how it felt to make them, even though they aren't the important part of the memory. "No, I didn't mean it that way," he said, and it was the truth. When he remembers the feel of the exoskeleton crushing beneath his fingers, it makes him choke on his rice.   
  
The rice is kept in a white plastic tub that sits in the corner. He had to learn how to steam it in a regular pot; Gojyo didn't own a cooker at first, and he couldn't buy one. It was three months before he could find work of any sort. Odd jobs as a scribe allowed him to go shopping for small things that no one could possibly object to, things that normally accumulate in a place of residence given any length of time. Gojyo initially protested, saying that it was unnecessary, but he imagines his host was relieved at not having to drink his coffee out of reused paper cups from the convenience store.  
  
He still remembers what happened the first time he offered to cook, the first week he could walk steadily again. Gojyo looked taken aback at the idea, but then a hint of nostalgia crept into his lean face. It converted to enthusiasm as he watched.   
  
"Yeah? You any good?"   
  
"I don't know," he replied smilingly. "I only ever had one judge. But I got high marks from her."  
  
Gojyo shot him a look, slightly alarmed, but he kept the smile in place and the man relaxed. "Aniki used to cook for me, sometimes." It had the tone of a confession. "He was always saying he'd teach me when I got bigger."  
  
"I could teach you, too." There was a brief pause and he felt awkward. It ought to have been like that all the time, he realized, and yet it wasn't. Once, the man had helped him to the bathroom, then wordlessly helped him back out when he found himself unable to rise. He supposed there wasn't much left to be awkward about.   
  
"Well...we'll see how dinner comes out," the man said slowly, then grinned. Before he could study the expression it changed into one of concern. "But don't push yourself, alright? Ya feel tired, we can always go out."  
  
"I feel fine," he said. In his mind he planned an attack on the countertop.   
  
That night, when Gojyo came home, he handed over a white plastic bag. Inside were two things: another bag, filled with five pounds of rice, and a parcel wrapped in newspaper. He unrolled it, uncovering a fat bass, black scales damp and yielding beneath the pressure of his fingers. The faint fishy smell rose to his nostrils as he looked at it and tried not to smile. Finally he cleared his throat and spoke to his host, whose eyes had shifted into nervous defense during his examination.  
  
"Gojyo--"  
  
"If it's the wrong kind, never mind, I don't know anything about this stuff--"  
  
"No! No, it's fine." He smiled; the request is one he's never had to make before. "It's just, if you could maybe let me borrow a little money? I think I should probably go pick up some extras at the store."  
  
"I'll go," his host said immediately.   
  
"Ah." He couldn't restrain a sense of dismay. Like the awkwardness, it caught him by surprise. "Naturally you wouldn't want a stranger--"  
  
"Don't be stupid," the man said gruffly. "It's a five minute walk. You'll get tired."  
  
He smiled again. "If you give me directions, I think I can manage."   
  
He came back in twelve minutes, sweating and trembling and bearing fresh garlic, ginger, salt, sugar, rice wine, soy sauce, red vinegar and sesame oil. The lady at the store had thrown in a bunch of scallions.   
  
  
  
Dinner was a great triumph.  
  
Now he cooks regularly and the kitchen, which has no fan, is beginning to bear a slight smell of spices and grease, although he opens the window as far as he can. There is other evidence of a system in place, one steadily evolving. It took him a few weeks to collect the money, but he's replaced the crooked knife with a thin, sharp cleaver that slices casually through meat and vegetable. It lies on top of the cutting board in the third drawer, below the chopsticks and bowls, above the dishes.   
  
He wishes he could go out more often instead of handing Gojyo a list of things every morning, but he thinks it best to stay out of sight. Gojyo accepts this as he accepts everything else. He wants the exercise, needs to push himself to be well sooner. Staying on his feet for more than fifteen minutes still makes him shaky. He hasn't told Gojyo what he's planning to do. The space where the questions should be has acquired a gravity all its own. He still hasn't explained his crime, or how he wound up with his guts torn out on the path outside Gojyo's door.   
  
So one day, he does, over the bitter weak taste of instant coffee. It seems right that someone should know of her, to remember her name after he is gone. He is tense and smiling when he mentions it, waiting for that look to fall upon him with all the weight of judgment. However, it only holds a brief surprise that tells him that of all the things his host may have imagined, that surely wasn't one of them. It makes him wonder what the man has been speculating, and if he's been speculating at all.  
  
That night he manages to teach Gojyo one dish, an easy stewed chicken.   
  
Progress is slow thereafter, as Gojyo insists that one dish is enough. The patience required for cooking is not natural to him. That is his problem in cards as well; he is not patient enough, nor is his nature one given to calculation. Gojyo says his luck gets worse by the day, and claims that his guest has jinxed him. He still brings home his winnings, so the curse can't be too strong.   
  
At the same time, he tries to keep the menu varied, which makes it harder to teach, as he can't make the same simple dishes over and over. It would be easier if Gojyo had a preference, but the man eats everything with the sole comment, "You would make a good wife." It would also be easier if Gojyo could stand to be in the kitchen for more than a few minutes at a time. The man wanders in and out abruptly, like a nervous tic. He doesn't say anything, merely picking up the instruction whenever the pupil reappears. Unacceptable behavior for a classroom, but he thinks he can bend the rules. After all, he had a sister he cooked for; Gojyo, he knows, has--or had--a brother who cooked.   
  
He slices onions, and while his eyes sting he thinks of layers, and symmetry.   
  
~*~  
  
At some point he recognizes that the wounds have closed. The flesh is taut but growing less tender around the stitches, and he can feel the swelling recede, becoming the stiffness of scar tissue. He can stay on his feet for the half hour or so that it takes him to prepare dinner, and not be trembling when he sits down afterwards. When he sleeps at night, it is no longer an unwilling slide into exhaustion.  
  
One day, he wakes up and realizes that he dreamt about the kitchen. In his dream, he was slicing onions. They were a deep flame-red.  
  
That morning the list he writes out for Gojyo is a little longer.  
  
~*~  
  
Gojyo eats through it all without a murmur: the dried scallop soup, the sticky rice-stuffed duck, the black mushroom and steamed egg, the chilled lotus seed dessert. It's a ridiculous amount of food for two, enough even should all their mental company materialize. He wonders if it can be enough--if anything could be enough--and asks himself why he chose to stay so long. It's a rare kind of egotism that insists on exorcising a ghost, only to replace it with his own, he thinks, watching Gojyo chew.   
  
Their meals are usually quiet. Gojyo is painfully unversed in the art of small talk, and as for himself? He no longer has anything to say. But tonight, neither of them are trying. His mind is made up, but he wonders if the man who brought him back to life will try to stop him.   
  
The meal passes without incident and when he stands to clear the table, a hand closes on his wrist. He looks down in surprise.   
  
"Let me," Gojyo says.   
  
Part of him wants to leave things neat and clean, as they will never be in the other kitchen he left. In that kitchen, there were geraniums on the windowsill and the knife and cutting board lay in the third drawer, below the chopsticks and bowls, above the dishes. Another part of him, the part that sees how Gojyo never says, "I'm home," but will wander into the bedroom if his guest is not in the kitchen, understands that three rooms is too much squalor not to be shared.  
  
He lets Gojyo clear the table and even help him with the dishes.  
  
It takes him so little time to pack--after all, he has nothing to take--that he can find no excuse to stay until morning. It's just as well, he suspects, since the house may be long since cleaned, but there would have to be breakfast and Gojyo's lunch to prepare, and the list to write out.   
  
He doesn't let his eyes linger on the any part of it as he straightens the magazines lying on the floor, smooths the sheets and fluffs away the slight indent in the flat, heavy pillow. He does look extra carefully for cigarette butts. Who knows how many will accumulate before the next time someone thinks to civilize his host?   
  
The room smells like Hi-Lites even when he is done, and he thinks to himself that even Gojyo, who professes to view the house as a convenient place to fuck, will be leaving a ghost, however faint.  
  
Now there is only one thing left to do. He closes the door behind him. "--Gojyo-san. If I could have a moment?"  
  
The man looks up from his paper, red eyes sharpening with knowledge. "Going?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Dinner, after all, was only an interest payment. The explanation is still due. He doesn't mind as much as he thought he would, perhaps because he knows that Gojyo will understand. No--he knows that Gojyo will agree.  
  
And with a small movement of his shoulders he thanks the man with blood-red hair for keeping him alive long enough to clean up the kitchen. He has only one more item to check off the list, and he is going out to find it.  
  
"Naa--"  
  
He turns.   
  
"Tell me your name."  
  
And he's glad of the request, because the cigarette butts will reappear, and the kitchen floor will, in time, become sticky. "I'm--"  
  
A sharp knocking at the door. Gojyo is startled; this is not a door much knocked on. Their eyes meet for a brief moment before his host thrusts out an arm. "Hang on a moment," and motions him back.  
  
Inside, he waits, his heart throbbing terribly, and licks his lips with a tongue gone dry. He hears a voice apologizing for the hour, but brusquely. It is not an apology but a prelude. The words are slightly muffled through the door, but he is sure enough of what is being said. Gojyo is denying any knowledge of him. Hope and fear are twin snakes rising within him; he only needs just a little more time, less than one day. Then they can come for him as they wish.   
  
Even as he thinks it he realizes how childish it sounds. Suddenly he recalls that there are still two mugs on the table, and moves to silently put one away. Then he hears the sharp bark of a gunshot. Dropping the mug, he dashes back to the door and opens it, looking around wildly for a slumped and bleeding form. "Gojyo-san?!"  
  
"Tell me you ain't coming out now!"  
  
"Cho Gonou, is it?" He barely has time to register his relief--Gojyo is very much unshot--before meeting the eyes of the man who has been sent to deliver him to judgment.  
  
At least this time, he can say he recognized Destiny when it came to call.  
  
~*~  
  
  
  
In the last moments of his life, strangely, his mind is not a morass of doubt or recollection he expected, nor is it the peaceful blank for which he hoped. Instead, he is wondering whether the mug broke or not when he dropped it. He regrets not having bought Gojyo a dustpan. The man has a terrible habit of wandering the place barefoot.   
  
~*~   
  
Epilogue:  
  
The man looks thinner. Even in the shade of the stall's canopy, the sharp accents of his cheekbones are stark in their sudden exposure. Sanzo said nothing about Gojyo's new haircut, and the change seems quite drastic: Had it not been for the color, he would have missed the man altogether. The two scars are glaringly obvious from this side of his profile, and he feels a twinge of expectation. Surely at some point he will earn the right to hear their story.  
  
He wonders what to say as he approachs, pointlessly noiseless in the bustling street. Gojyo is mulling over the fruit, which is piled neatly in its wooden crates like dusty gems. Inexorable as the hand of fate, his fingers wander towards a heap of apples, then snake out to grab one. He tosses it once, casually, with a flick of the wrist.   
  
It comes to his lips easily, like a well-known script.   
  
"A lovely red, aren't they, Gojyo?"  
  
When he sees Gojyo freeze, then turn to stare at him with shock-filled eyes, he feels the first stirrings of what might be gratitude.   
  
~*~  
  
  
  
They stop by his house before making their way to the temple. On the way, conversation is nearly nonexistent. He dares to comment only once, "New haircut, I see."  
  
Gojyo has his hands jammed deeply into his pockets. "Yeah." He takes another few steps, facing directly forward, then adds, "Did it myself."  
  
He absorbs this as they walk. He knows this stretch very well, the three or so blocks between the house and the marketplace. Even if Gojyo were not there, he could follow it back with ease.   
  
"And what about that? You do that yourself?"   
  
It takes him a moment to realize that the man is talking about the monocle. He shakes his head, then speaks up when he notices that Gojyo isn't looking at him. "Ah--no. Prescription lens."  
  
We will restore your sight to you, but partially, as a reminder that such rash acts cannot always be undone, They said. We will see what you choose to make of our gift.  
  
"I think it may be Divine Mercy on an installment plan," he says carefully, and listens to Gojyo's startled bark of laughter ring out, feels the man eyeing him briefly before sliding his gaze back to the street.  
  
Gojyo takes him in with furtive, sidelong glances, as if he might not bear up under the pressure of a focused scrutiny. He's not perfectly convinced that he would, so they remain speechless until Gojyo unlocks the door and they step back under the roof where he spent his last six weeks.   
  
Gojyo doesn't turn on the lights and first he can scarcely see in the relative gloom indoors. When his eyes adjust he thinks that perhaps they are playing tricks on him.   
  
On the floor by the table are the smashed remains of a white clay mug. Lifting his gaze slowly, he can see what looks like utter destruction trailing out of the kitchen. He steps closer to examine it, carefully avoiding the other fragments of what seem to have been the dishes.   
  
Apparently, dishes were not the only casualty: the smell of sesame oil is strong in the air. Drawers have been yanked out and emptied on the floor; one cabinet door hangs at a crazy angle. The window is gaping jagged shards where something smashed through the two thin panes.   
  
He is still surveying the scene with disbelief when Gojyo begins to make sheepish sounds. "Ah--look, m'sorry about the mess..."  
  
"Earthquake?" he asks, although it seems to have been a very localized one.  
  
"I told the landlord I'd pay for it," Gojyo says somewhat absently. "He--told me you died."  
  
"Sanzo?" He doesn't have to wait for the answer; presumably it wasn't the landlord. Reflectively he says, "I suppose I did." Properly speaking, he thinks, he died two months ago. It's merely taken him this long to come back to life.  
  
"Gojyo?" He can feel the tension in the other man's body, the perpetual wariness of his faculties.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"You kept the broom, didn't you?"   
  
"The--yeah, I kept it. You, uh, want it?"  
  
He shakes his head. "Plenty of time when we get back from the temple, although we might as well eat out tonight. But yes, I think the kitchen will need a spot of work."   
  
"You can worry about it after dinner," Gojyo says gruffly. "If we're going to the temple, we should probably get going."  
  
He turns away from the mess, and smiles. "Yes, let's," he says, and follows Gojyo back into the afternoon sunshine.   
  
.......feedback?  
  
i'm sorry then go's been so long in production. college is great, and it keeps me pretty busy. i have learned the secret to getting straight As--go to class--and have my heart set on a 3.9 this semester, or BUST.   
  
so far i've got these fics on the backburner:  
  
TG Ch. 12  
  
a 39 fic (for K. Firefly, I owe her one =) )  
  
a Tenipuri fic (TezukaxFuji, for those of you familiar with the series)  
  
and yet, oddly enough, all that i actually get written is 58.  
  
this couple has just, well...they're like a favorite shirt or something you wear for comfort, even when it's old and stained and worn and should get thrown out. i've figured out that i'm not so much writing multiple 58 stories as i am just rewriting the same story over and over again. which i think is ok, since it really ought to be told at least a thousand times or. i won't ever get tired of hearing the words "happily ever after" about them, that's for sure. i can only hope you all feel the same. 


End file.
